threw,

And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. His wars were ended, and the victory won,

But then, 'twas reckoning-day with

honest John;

And authors vouch, 'twas still this

Worthy's way,

"Never to grumble till he came to pay; And then he always thinks, his temper's such,

The work too little, and the pay too much."

Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty,

That when his mortal foe was on the floor, And past the power to harm his quiet more,

Poor John had wellnigh wept for
Bonaparte!

Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd,

"And who are you," John answer'd, "and be d-d!"'

XVI.

"A stranger, come to see the happiest man,

So, signior,all avouch,-in Frangistan.""Happy? my tenants breaking on my hand;

Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land;

Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths

The sole consumers of my good broadcloths

Happy?-Why, cursed war and racking

tax

Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs."

In that case, signior, I may take my leave;

I came to ask a favour-but I grieve”"Favour?" said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard,

"It's my belief you come to break the yard!

foreign sinner,

Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner."

With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head;

But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, "Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline; A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine, Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well."

"Kiss and be d-d," quoth John, “and go to hell!"

XVII.

Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg,

Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg When the blithe bagpipe blew-but, soberer now,

She doucely span her flax and milk'd her

COW.

And whereas erst she was a needy slattern, Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern, Yet once a-month her house was partly

swept,

And once a-week a plenteous board she kept.

And whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws

And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation,

She now was grown amenable to laws,

A quiet soul as any in the nation; The sole remembrance of her warlike joys

Was in old songs she sang to please het boys.

John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife,

She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbour,

Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labour,

Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon,

And was d-d close in making o a bargain.

490

And with decorum curtsy'd sister Peg; (She loved a book, and knew a thing or

Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle

In search of goods her customer to nail, Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle,

And hollo'd-"Ma'am, that is not what I ail.

Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen?"

"Happy?" said Peg; "What for d'ye want to ken?

Besides, just think upon this by-gane year, Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh."

"What say you to the present ?""Meal's sae dear,

To mak' their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh.".

"The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, “I think my quest will end as it began.

Peg.

The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, Which is with Paddy still a jolly day : When mass is ended, and his load of sins Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns

Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit, Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit!

To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free, And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. "By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, "That ragged fellow is our very man! Rush in and seize him-do not do him hurt,

But, will he nill he, let me have his sşkırt.”—

XXII.

Shilela their plan was wellnigh after baulking,

(Much less provocation will set it a-walking,)

But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd

Paddy Whack ;

They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him-Alack! Up-bubboo! Paddy had not- -a shirt

to his back!!!

And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame,

Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.

THE SUN UPON THE LAW HILL.

1817.

THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.

AIR-" Ymdaith Mionge."

WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S WELSH MELODIES.

1817.

THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hush and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore;

Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,

Are they still such as once they were?

Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar grey
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the silvan Dee,

O miserere, Domine!

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful' banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand?
Such was the Divine decree,

O miserere, Domine!

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shril!:
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere, Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain, Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,

AIR-" Cha till mi tuille."

Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this Lament when the Clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The Minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, “ Cha till mi tuille; ged thills Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon,” “I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!" piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave

of their native shore.

The

MACLEOD'S wizard flag from the grey castle sallies,

The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys;

Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,

As Mackrimmon sings, "Farewell to Dunvegan for ever!

Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming;

Farewell each dark glen, in which reddeer are roaming;

Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river;

Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never!

"Farewell the bright clouds that on

Quillan are sleeping; Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping:

o'er me;

But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not shiver,

Though devoted I go-to return again never!

"Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing

Be heard when the Gael on their exile are Dear land! to the shores, whence unsailing; willing we sever, Return-return-return

shall we never! Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille! Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon !"

DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN. AIR-" Malcolm Caird's come again."

1818.

CHORUS.

DONALD CAIRD's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Tell the neaus in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again!

Donald Caird can lilt and sing,
Blithely dance the Highland fling,
Drink till the gudeman be blind,
Fleech till the gudewife be kind;
Hoop a leglin, clout a pan,
Or crack a pow wi' ony man;
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again.

Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again.